Archive for June, 2012

I’m being quiet…sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room. I’m being quiet, because I just heard a little click from across the room, where my Lady Wonder Wench is sitting on the couch doing her needlepoint. I’m pretty sure her fingernails made that click. I like the fact that her fingernails are long enough to make a click like that for several reasons. One’s obvious. Even to the pimple people. It has to do with the terrible need for a slow, thorough scratching a Louie-Louie Generation guy’s back develops over time. I don’t know if Pimple People guys have the same problem. But I have a deep, heavy duty, emergency level, need for long, luxurious, ladylike, fingernails slipping up my spine…starting all the way down at the bottom…slowly skittering up between my shoulders… sneaking into the hair on the back of my neck…and s c r a t c h I n g my head…all the way around to my forehead. Oh it feels good… just talking about it.

I must confess that her fingernails are not the first of my Lady Wonder Wench’s feminine characteristics that initially ignited my sinful nature. In fact, when I first met her, she had her fingernails clipped very short. She was a secretary, and long fingernails were not a good idea when you used a typewriter all day back then.

What happened to typewriters ? It’s like all of a sudden they never existed. I guess the same thing happened to typewriters as happened to “back then.” Whatever happened, probably happened on the same day that major league baseball players started looking like little leaguers, and rock and roll became just rock, and movies became films.

Of course we started making movies on tape instead of on film a long time ago. And now they’re not even on tapes any more. They’re discs…and little thumbnail icons that start when you right click them. And how come we’re still calling them movies ? We’ve been watching pictures move for quite a while now. Why do we still call them movies? We seem to have stopped updating what we call them. We seem to have jumped right past updating them by calling them talkies.

That would have been a terrible mistake. I can’t imagine taking a girl for dinner and a talkie…because as a practical matter guys…why would you want to pay to go to a talkie unless you were dating a very quiet girl? (I think I’m going to catch hell for that one.)

1- Why is it better to talk about Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck rather than about Smokey the Bear in the United States ?

2- What’s a good thing to remember in Canada if you get scared in an airplane?

3- Why don’t they serve beer in Guelph, Ontario?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

A long time ago, I had a friend by the name of Sandy Baron. He was a fairly well known comedian, who had a successful tv show, and did some Broadway acting on the side. My Lady Wonder Wench and I went to see a play he was in. The main gimmick in the play was that he was a completely straight guy, but he wore a necklace. That was a long time ago. Now, lots of straight guys would feel naked leaving home without a necklace, ear rings, and five piercings…only four of which the general public would get to see.

But fancy fingernails are still strictly a feminine frill. I like that. It’s simple. I have enough problems trying to figure things out without being confused about which are girl hands and which are not. It’s a confusing life. I was digging in my yard yesterday and I started wondering how far down did I have a right to dig. I mean do I own my yard all the way down to the middle of the earth ? And if I dug all the way through to the other side of the planet…would I fall all the way down that hole, or once I passed half way, would I pop back up? That started some similar questions going in my head. Like, if you fart and burp at the same time, would that pull your navel back inside ? And you know the signs on restaurant doors that say No shirt, no shoes, no service? What would happen if I went in with no pants ? And if I did get my dinner in there, how come they’ll give me catsup if I order French fries, but not if I order mashed potatoes ? Life to a Louie-Louie Generation guy like me…is sometimes a confusion contusion.

But an email came pouring in a few days ago that made something startlingly clear. There are people in this huddle of ours who are very special to me. One of you calls herself “Somebody Nobody.” And her note says, “Each time I look in the mirror and dislike my eyes and see in them the hard times I’ve been through, I always remember that you love eyes that have cried, and have little wrinkles from how much she smiled at you. And when I remember…I feel better. So thank you for loving your Lady’s eyes. I’ll never forget that.”

And I’ll never forget your note…Ms. Somebody Nobody. It made me look back a lot of years, to a story I wrote when I first met my Lady Wonder Wench. We were very young. The first time I touched her face, it took my fingers a half hour to calm down. It felt like I loved her long before either of us was born. And it still does.

Some of you are sitting there with your hearts torn out, because there’s a big, cold, cave there where someone you thought loved you used to live. You might think I’m cruel to tell you stories about what it’s like to love my Lady Wonder Wench. But listen. The reason I’m telling you about my Lady Wonder Wench and me is that I want you to know that lives like this do happen…for real…and for keeps.

I understand that right now, you don’t know if this kind of being in love will ever happen to you. But you also don’t know that it won’t. Remember what Big Louie always says: “There’s nothing permanent about your future.”

The story I wrote all those years ago is called Tears. It’s very old. It’s not in any of the personal audio CDs. At least not yet. I just recorded it because I wanted Ms. Somebody Nobody to know how special her note is to me. I’ve already sent it to Ms. Somebody, and if you like it, you can either just keep the current podcast, or I’ll be glad to send the story by itself to your email address. No strings attached. I’d just like you to have it. You and Ms. Somebody Nobody.

My Lady Wonder Wench is still clicking away with her fingernails over there on the couch. She’s doing her needlepoint. It’s time for me to bring my back over there, so hopefully…she can put her clickers to better use.

I am not sitting in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair. Right now, I’m hangin in my hammock…out on my back deck…under the trees. There should be a hammock hangin song. Maybe a rapper.

Hangin in my hammock, looking up at the trees. Got any problems don’t tell me ‘bout them please.

Just a tee shirt and jeans, no suit, tie or shoes. Can’t help smilin and rockin, and takin a snooze.

It’s Summertime, Summertime, Sum, Sum, Sumertime… Summertime. Summertime, and the livin is easy…The Lazy, Crazy, Hazy days of Summer….I guess you get the point.

I’ve got so much to do today, and I’m not doing any of it. At least for a while. This is my Don’t-Do-What-I-Don’t-Wanna-Do-Day, Do-Wah, Do Wah. And my hammock is the perfect place to not do what I don’t wanna do. That’s wanna…not want to. No prissy pronunciations please.

There are lots of things I don’t wanna do today. I don’t wanna mow the lawn. I don’t wanna write a new commercial for my main client. I don’t wanna start work on the new book I’m supposed to write. I don’t even wanna wash my car. Make it look like a star. Fill er up with gas, and take me someplace far.

STOP…as Big Louie his own bad self always says when I start getting myself in deep doo-doo…with this silly voo-doo. STOP… PLEEEZZZE STOP is what my Lady Wonder Wench says when I do my doo-doo out loud. She says it doesn’t make her very proud.

My head won’t stop rappin at me…slappin at me…yappin at me when the rest of me is just hammock hangin.

You know what curing me of this entails ? Just hitting you with some Dick’s Details…Quiz. All answers are in the current podcast.

1- What is a big factor in making organized crime so profitable?

2- What don’t our new B.A.s, M.A.s and Ph Ds have?

3- What did the shrink say to the cannibal ?

Dick’s Details. They take your mind off your mind.

I really am doing a new book by the way. The working title is The ‘Tude Dude. As you might have figured out, it’s mainly about reminding Louie-Louie Generation folks that we don’t have to let ourselves turn into lumps of meat, just because we don’t look like the people in the beer commercials any more.

That’s something I’ve had on my mind ever since I first realized that my slick was slipping. And that was a long time ago. I wrote a story about it all the way back when my first lovin touch book was published. It’s called, Losers.

My Lady Wonder Wench spent a lot of years with me when a trip to McDonalds was a big deal…and there wasn’t any car to wash, and there certainly wasn’t any hammock on any back deck. There were lots of times when my slick slipped pretty bad…and I landed up hard on my pride. She always understood. And she still does. My Lady Wonder Wench.

Losers is from the lovin touch personal audio cd. If you like it, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the lovin touch icon on the home page.

I really am going to do a new book about us. The Louie Generation. And …lying here in my hammock feeling kind of silly…instead of workin’ be-in chilly…I was also thinking of doing a children’s book. Some possible children’s books titles have been flipping around in my brain.

How about The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Veggies. Or Four Letter Words To Know And Share. Or The Kid’s Guide To Hitchhiking. Or Some Kittens Can Fly. Or The Pop Up Book Of Grown Up’s Anatomy. I could follow one of those up with Whining, Kicking And Crying To Get Your Way. Or, Your Nightmares Are Real. Maybe Disney would want the movie rights to Why Can’t Mr. Fork And Ms. Electric Outlet Be Good Friends.

What do you mean, you see some problems with my kid’s book project? Hey…you know what ? I don’t care.

There is always an “oh wow” when you fly in a small airplane … no, not because the pilot scares you, but because he does everything he can do to not scare you.

My Louie-Louie Lad loves to fly his plane so much I think he’d rather do that than eat. Well … almost, anyway.

He brags so much about Cecelia and her knowledge and love for flying that when our son Mark and his lady Donna came this past weekend, she agreed to fly with him even though her dad was not happy about the thought of his girl up in the air with a “pilot” …

Obviously it worked out fine and now C and D can discuss their trips the next time they meet.

That’s the good thing about being attached to a pilot. They delight all sorts of people by showing them a small piece of their world that most others never get to see. And just because Cecelia is three doesn’t mean she can’t discuss her trips with wide-eyed wonder and delight … and the right words. Oh, she does have words.

I’m sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable, black leather poppa chair in my living room, wrapping another toy airplane to send to the newest member of our family, three year old Cecilia. Cecilia had to bring our daughter Kris along when she came to visit us a few months ago, because the airlines don’t let three year olds fly alone. Cecelia is that kind of three year old. Cecilia lives near a small airport, and Kris has taken her to see the small planes take off and land many times, much to Cecilia’s delight. So she was really looking forward to flying in a big plane to see us. And she wasn’t disappointed.

Kris told us that Cecelia had a window seat in the airliner. And when the big engines powered that huge, silver, flying beast down the runway, and up into the clouds, a little three year old voice said, “Oh wow.” There was an even bigger “Oh wow” as the clouds swallowed the earth and everything else outside her window…even those big silver wings. If you’re a member of the Louie-Louie Generation, I know you’ll appreciate that sound…an amazed three year old you love…saying “oh wow.” But then…when that giant 737 broke through the dark grey clouds… and the sun and sparkling blue sky started dancing on top …all she could say was…”Oh. Oh”…then she clapped her hands and laughed…as if she were applauding for a miracle. And in a way…she was.

Don’t you love it when a little kid you love, discovers some new miracle ? Like when she finds her own fingers. I’ve seen that 13 times…including Cecelia. It’s always amazing. It almost makes you remember when you had that experience yourself…all those years ago. Finding your own fingers. Then figuring out that there are other fingers out there…much bigger ones than yours. And it feels nice to curl your fingers around those bigger ones. Then you learn that those big fingers belong to someone who has a soft voice, and does a funny thing with his face…it’s called a smile. You learn trust, because you find out that you can hold on to the fingers on that hand, to help you use your legs to walk…that hand makes you feel secure. You know you’ve got to let go of that hand and walk by yourself…so you do…you take a few steps…you wobble and you fall down. So you do it again…it seems like forever till you get it right…you let go, you take a few steps…you wobble…but this time you don’t fall down and another hand you can trust catches your hand.

Eventually your hand gets big enough to make a fist, and hold a pencil…then a handle bar…and eventually a steering wheel. You learn what a solid feeling you get when you shake hands with a friend…and the amazing feeling of holding hands with somebody beautiful…warm hands in front of a fireplace on a cold winter night…tingling fingertips in secret places…fingertips to face…finger tips around lips…then sometimes, the feeling of little fingers around your fingertips…and the great circle starts again.

Little Cecelia loves airplanes. I took her for a flight in my little four seater Piper while she was here, and I explained about the ailerons, and the rudder…and she understood. She’s smart. She not only understood, but evidently she gave a lecture on the subject to her day care class…complete with an “oh wow.” Kris says Cecelia is quite convinced she can fly the airliner next time they come to visit.

There’s something genuinely magical about climbing into an airplane, and lifting off into the sky. A pilot-poet once said it was like…”Reaching out to touch the face of God.” He was a nineteen year old kid…no he was a nineteen year old hero…who gave his life when his Spitfire was shot down in the battle of Britan. It was World War 2. The Royal Air Force was mercilessly out numbered by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. Talk about flying with your back to the wall. Winston Churchill very famously said about that battle…”Never in history have so many owed so much to so few.” I’ve never had the honor of flying into battle for my country. But I’ve had the honor of flying…by myself…at night. And I’ve had the honor and joy of flying with my Lady Wonder Wench in our little airplane…just before Christmas. You might remember I told you about it last year.

Christmas is the story of a little kid. I sometimes wonder what it must have been like to watch Christ as an infant…find his fingers. And learn to walk…and talk…like little Cecelia…and every little kid. Including you. And me. And my Lady Wonder Wench. There’s a very short story about my Lady Wonder Wench that happened at an airport…a very long time ago. It’s in the lovin touch personal audio cd. It’s an airport story with a tough beginning and a very happy ending. It’s called Airport. It’s in the current podcast. If you like it you can just keep the podcast, or if you want a fresh copy just down load it from the lovin touch icon on the home page.

Little Cecelia wanted her ears pierced for her birthday this year. She’s three. Kris said “maybe when you get a little older.” Cecelia said, “You mean like when I’m five?” Any Louie-Louie Generation lad or lady knows how persistent a 3 year old can be, so Cecelia now has both ears pierced. “I said did it hurt ?” She said, “Of course Poppa. But I didn’t cry.” I said, “How come you didn’t cry?” She said “Because mommy said if I cry, I can’t get my ears pierced.” I just said…”Oh wow.” And we both clapped our hands and laughed.

Aw, come on, dearest Louie-Louie lad … dunking pigtails in ink wells is not the finest way to get Kathleen’s attention … or anyone else’s, for that matter …

And just because the writing looks attractive doesn’t mean it’s useless. Men USED to be able to write with style and flair. Men ONCE had the ability to make words sing, just by placing them next to each other in the proper order.

Remember poets? Remember playwrights? Remember charming notes written to ladies to tell them how men felt? Remember little notes left on the kitchen table as a guy left his lady at night and wasn’t positive he would ever see her again?

There is springtime and soft breezes and the quiet sounds of happiness in the sweeping curves of romantic handwriting.

I am sitting here in my big, manly, comfortable black leather poppa chair in my living room, admiring my Lady Wonder Wench’s curves. No, not her sweater curves. The curves in her handwriting. She’s working on her new novel, and she likes to write in handwriting. Cursive they call it. It is used almost exclusively by highly evolved human females. My lady wrote a beautiful blog about Cursive just the other day. When she finished it, she closed her computer and gave me a smile like I first saw on the face of the girl who sat in front of me in the 4th grade at St. Gregory’s grammar school in Brooklyn. Her name was Kathleen McMullen. She was very smart. Every time Sister Mary Knucklebuster asked a question, Kathleen raised her hand with the correct answer. I couldn’t stand her. She had pigtails. I dipped them in the inkwell every time she leaned back.

Louie-Louie Generation folks are the only people on the planet who will remember pens that used ink. Ball point pens were very expensive in those days. We used ink pens at St. Gregory’s. They were called fountain pens because you filled them with ink. Inkwells were holes in the desk where you kept a bottle of ink. Ink was what you used in your pen, and inkwells were where you dipped Kathleen McMullen’s pigtails at every opportunity. I am convinced that Kathleen McMullen skipped right past printing. The day she was born, she probably wrote a very lady like thank you note on fancy stationary to her mom and dad…in cursive. The only time I ever heard Sr. M. Knucklebuster purr, was one afternoon while she was watching Kathleen McMullen’s execution of what was called the Palmer Method of Cursive writing. I’m pretty sure that Palmer person was a woman.

Guys print. Except for those few very highly evolved guys who become doctors or registered pharmacists, we print. We don’t do cursive. We print so we can make ourselves understood with other guys. Printing is strong and simple. Like men. Cursive flounces along, all smart and sexy and curvy like women. We print. They curse.

Printing and Cursive make English look like two different languages. And English is complicated enough. It’s actually three different languages. The printed kind, the Cursive kind and the spoken kind. The spoken kind goes off in all directions. Talk about complicated. How are we supposed to know that a fijord is not a Scandinavian car…and a myth is not a female moth…and mosquitoes are not people who live in Moscow. And Brooklyn English is even more complicated. If you see a word that’s spelled D I V A, you would be excused if a New Yawker thought we were talking about somebody who jumps into a swimming pool.

By the way, I remember hating all girls in the fourth grade, but most of all I couldn’t stand Kathleen McMullen. Then, in the fifth grade something happened. I still hated girls, but for some reason, I began thinking that if I ever stopped hating girls, I’d probably stop hating Kathleen McMullen first.

And I don’t know what kind of Summer camp Kathleen went to after fifth grade, but when she came back in September for sixth grade, there were drastic changes in her, which produced very drastic changes in my attitude toward girls in general, and Kathleen in particular. Hormones started howling.

Sometimes howling hormones are funny. Sometimes they’re not. There’s a story about when they’re not in the Night Connections 3 Personal Audio CD. It’s called “Growing Up Fast.” Something like what happens in the story happened in my family recently. It’s tough. But so far so good.

If you like “Growing Up Fast”, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections 3 icon on the home page.

Cursive is well named as far as I’m concerned. It’s a curse to me, and to most guys. But listen to what my Lady wrote in her blog about it:

Cursive is the lovely hand writing in long sweeping curls and flourishes, curlicues and flounces, creative forms and fascinating comments that has existed for – oh, several hundred years at least. It is the foundation of the books and pamphlets, the speeches and decrees, the cries for help, the songs and the letters, the stories, the truths and the falsehoods … the everything that came before.

It is what we were before the printing press, before radio and television, before books and computers, before mankind was so arrogant that we forgot how to pick up a pen and just let the words flow.

Cursive is the music that fills out words and makes them appear, at least, to glow with beauty. Cursive brings life to the nominally dead alphabet of our language and grows more intense as it moves forward, hauling us all after it in spite of ourselves, breathing in the glory and the excitement it creates.

She’s sitting over there writing her book…in her loops and curvy cursive…and smiling at me…with that Lady Wonder Wenchy smile. I remember the first time I saw that smile… for just a moment, English became my second language. I would have started speaking in tongues…but I couldn’t get mine to work.

Guys have a problem, apparently. They can’t, for the most part, read cursive. Therefore, they plan on getting rid of the teaching of cursive writing in schools. Who needs it, after all?

But just for the sake of some small reality, here, let us get real.

Cursive is … hmmm, let me see, it is the lovely hand writing in long sweeping curls and flourishes, curlicues and flounces, creative forms and fascinating comments that has existed for – oh, several hundred years at least. It is the foundation of the books and pamphlets, the speeches and decrees, the cries for help, the songs and the letters, the stories, the truths and the falsehoods … the everything that came before.

It is what we were before the printing press, before radio and television, before books and computers, before mankind was so arrogant that he and she forgot how to pick up a pen and just let the words flow.

Cursive is the music that fills out words and makes them appear, at least, to glow with beauty. Cursive brings life to the nominally dead alphabet of our language and grows more intense as it moves forward, hauling us all after it in spite of ourselves, breathing in the glory and the excitement it creates.

If cursive becomes “just another language” for pimple people to learn – or not – then who will read the originals of my letters to my Louie-Louie Lad?

We’re starting our seventh year together. Lucky seven. Some of you have been with us all the way, and some of you just jumped in tonight. Good and thanks to both. But some people aren’t with us. And you know, I think they’re really missing something. I hope you’ll tell them about the huddle we have here. It’s like a football huddle…lots of us gathered around, to help each other get to the goal…which is making it through the insanity around us. We’ve been around long enough to know that there are bad guys out there on the other team. And some of those bad guys are good. So you can’t keep running the same plays, and expect to make any yardage. You’ve got to come up with some new wrinkles if you want to score.

Actually, we’ve been around long enough to grow some real wrinkles. Which is ok. As long as we keep some twinkles in our wrinkles. Smiles, laughs, tears, hopes, and lovin’…that’s what lights our twinkles. The twinkles help us see where we’re going…keep us headed in the right direction. Our quarterback, Big Louie and I like to kid you a lot, but we’re really serious about this.

Too many people our age have been growing wrinkles inside. Inside wrinkles are the worst kind. The ones in your head squeeze the smiles off your face, and the ones in your heart squeeze your love juices dry. Too many record hop stars who danced all night to Louie-Louie now call taking a nap happy hour. I call them the Dreary, Dreadful Drones. They have gone over to the Dork Side. And lots of the time, all they need to get their twinkles lit again is getting back the old ‘Tude. Attitude.

They just got so busy with kids, and jobs, and physical problems and sometimes ruined romances…that they simply forgot how it felt to dance the night away. Seriously. Please remind them. No matter how long their wrinkles have been wiping away their smiles, or cutting off their juices, there are twinkles available to slip into their wrinkles. And sometimes just remembering the good times is a big help.

Please tell your friends…in person…or on Facebook…or on the phone…or by smoke signals…whatever works for you. Remind them how Louie-Louie was the muscle-pumper music that squirted the juice into so many of our lives. That’s why I call us the Louie-Louie Generation. We’ve been around long enough to have enjoyed making some wonderfully bad mistakes. And Louie-Louie is a great double name for a song with a double dose of ‘Tude … attitude. The ‘Tude is where you find the twinkle for your wrinkle. Tis the ‘Tude, Dude.

The ‘Tude … is really an even more important qualification than how long you’ve been around, for membership in the Louie-Louie Generation. ‘Tude is guuud. People who have never heard of lava lamps, Frisbees, or hula hoops can be Louie-Louie folks too. As long as they have the ‘Tude. Louie-Louie is a song with a double dose of ‘Tude. And the ‘Tude makes the difference between Louie-Louie lads and ladies, and those Dreary, Dreadful Drones. It’s Louie-Louie ‘Tude, vs. the ‘Tude-less and the Clue-less.

The Pimple People are clueless. I call them Pimple People because they often still have theirs. But they try to keep us from noticing their pimples by driving nails through their tongues to distract us, wearing their baseball caps sideways, and styling their jeans loose enough and low enough so when they turn their backs and walk away, they can leave us looking at a very nasty crack, so we’ll remember them. That’s rude, not ‘Tude. The Pimple People don’t know the difference between rude and ‘Tude. ‘Tude is not rude. The Pimple People either don’t know that, or they don’t care. I personally think they are just completely clue-less.

A Louie-Louie lad or lady understands that love is more than a hook up…that loving is about being willing to stay awake all night with a sick child, but also looking forward to doing the same thing–very willingly–the next night with the very healthy, lusty, cuddly adult of your choice.

But … on the other hand … Louie-Louie lads and ladies have been around long enough to understand the need for some caution, some times. We love swimming around in our juicy lives. And lots of times we’re skinny dipping. But we’ve also been around long enough to be careful that the gate in the fence is locked before we get out of the pool. Well, we almost always remember.

But sometimes…we forget. Just like sometimes we forget our glasses, or where we put our keys…sometimes we forget even more important things…like the lessons we’ve learned from the things we’ve done…and even the magic…and the mistakes we’ve made. And that’s when the wrinkles begin. The inside wrinkles. There’s a story about that in the Night Connections Personal Audio Cd. It’s called The Late Bloomer.

It not really the story of a worn out love affair. The lights had gone out long ago. Enough time had passed that they both had wrinkles around their hearts. But something happened that night. I don’t know why he went to see her that night… and that’s not important. What was important was HOW he saw her that night. Maybe she showed him some part of her that she was always afraid to show him until then…because it was such a personal part of her…or maybe she didn’t even know she had such a private place in her heart. I don’t know. And I don’t know what happened next. It’s their own very personal story.

If you like The Late Bloomer, you can just keep the current podcast, or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections icon on the home page.

Louie-Louie-Generation guys have good lives. I like to tell you that we are the bedmates of choice of super models, porn stars, and Catherine Zeta Jones look-alikes…because of our ‘Tude. We treat our women with lots of love and lots of lovely lust. We have some pretty good life stories to tell and we don’t mind telling them; and many of us have paid off our nice cars and private airplanes.

Louie-Louie Ladies have plenty of ‘Tude too. They know how to laugh and cry, love and lust, and cook … in every sense of the word. I love watching a Louie-Louie Lady … cooking comfortably at some high powered job, hitting her Louie-Louie guy on the shoulder while she laughs at his joke—but making sure he’s doing his job the way she wants it done. And a Louie-Louie Lady on the prowl is a force of nature.

I saw a great example of that a little while ago. A Louie-Louie Lady was eyeing some guy sitting alone at at the bar at the Applebee’s down the block. She put some perfume on her little lace hankie, slipped it into the guy’s jacket pocket … smiled up at him … and walked away without a word. Naturally, he caught up with her and asked her what that was all about. She just said, “It looks good in your pocket.” Then she started asking if he came here often … and shook her head as if she couldn’t hear … and said, “It’s noisy in here”–and leaned over toward him so she could hear his answer. That guy didn’t stand a chance. They left together a few minutes later. That’s what you call major Louie-Louie ‘Tude.

My Lady Wonder Wench is a Louie-Louie Lady. Sometimes she just sits over there on the couch and crosses her legs kind of high up on the thigh, and lets one shoe slip off enough to show the sole of her foot–then she swings her foot back and forth a little. Oh yeah. My Lady Wonder Wench has lots of ‘Tude. She definitely lights the twinkles in my wrinkles.